Cocksure
“lecture, on Monday night, Jacob Shalinsky was not alone. He sat with a tiny pinched man with rimless glasses. Throughout Mortimer’s lecture the tiny pinched man took notes; he and Shalinsky whispered together, Shalinsky nodding approvingly more than once. Afterwards, by prearrangement, Mortimer grudgingly sought Shalinsky out at the corner pub. He handed Shalinsky his twelve-hundred-word article on Chagall, titled – rather catchily, he thought – “The Myopic Mystic,” and ordered drinks for the t...wo of them. Shalinsky read Mortimer’s piece at once, pondering it unsmilingly. Finally he folded it neatly in four, pocketing it without comment.“Is there anything the matter?” Mortimer asked.“Cracking good stuff, magnifique, as an intellectual exercise, but –”“You don’t have to print it if you don’t want to.”“Did I say I wouldn’t print it? Not bloody likely … but, if you’ll allow me to finish, I had hoped it would be a little more from the soul. Take the title, for instance.MoreLess
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